


Hyacinths Taste Like Regret

by notalotgoingon



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Greek, Hanahaki Disease, Hyacinth and Apollo too, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Persephone and Hades based
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:40:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29675742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notalotgoingon/pseuds/notalotgoingon
Summary: The Prince of Death has few privileges, but he manages to escape his father’s grim life plans and flee to a beautiful garden. In the midst of a clearing, he finds an even more beautiful boy, the God of Springtime.
Relationships: Corpse Husband/Sykkuno (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 206





	Hyacinths Taste Like Regret

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: real people, fake situations, just a work of fiction that makes me happy to write. Also, don’t publish this to any other site (why would you want to though) 
> 
> I hope you enjoy. I know there have been lots of Hanahaki fics, but I think this one is a little different because it incorporates Greek mythology.

The son of death is not allowed outside the walls of the Underworld very often, and when he is, he is allowed to venture no further than the garden near the entrance to Hades. His father is very stern about this rule, yet he practically begs his son to take advantage of the place where they live. He encourages him to watch as new souls are condemned or heroes are met with acclaim for their wondrous merits. Somehow though, he does not feel right while peering down from the observation deck as bodies are burnt. The air is ashy and suffocation with wickedness clouding his thoughts. He desperately looks forward to his few trips above ground. They keep him sane amidst the screams that plead for forgiveness or death, whichever will put them out of their misery faster. However, they have already died, so their choices lessen. It is also very unlikely that his father will grant anyone mercy unless prompted by a god higher than him. 

Living a life of solitude has certainly taken its toll on father and son. His mother deserted him when he was just a baby, and honestly, he cannot blame her: Hades is a foreboding place with a callous, cruel landlord at its helm. The son of death was not given a name upon his birth. In fact, he had to earn a title. Only one thing could sate his father’s bloodlust: a dead body. So the little boy- who was not really little, being a god and having super-growing powers and all- found a vulnerable nymph and choked the life out of her. Afterwards, he burnt her body in worship of Hades like all other teenagers that have issues with their parents, of course. When he got home, the palace was decorated more lavishly than usually, so he knew his offering had gone over well. His father showed genuine affection and finally gave him a title, Corpse. Fitting, really, considering what he had done. He hardly regretted it, but now, in recent years, he has found that remorse has settled within him, and despite his best efforts, it refuses to leave.

On the other side of the spectrum of good and evil, there is innocence and purity in the form of the god of Spring, Sykkuno.

With a flower crown perched haphazardly on his head as he spins wildly about the clearing, the young god of spring’s jubilance is disturbed when his forest nymph companions desert him, fleeing without casting a second glance back at him. Corpse does not spare them a glare, for they are basically worthless to him. He does know why they ran at his approach, however: he killed one of their own, and although it was long ago, they have been implanted with the fear of death, fear of him.

“Hello,” he introduces, and despite his best effort to be gentle, he can tell the boy before him is startled like a deer hearing a leaf rustle. He is scared of Corpse, and the heir to chaos hates that.

“Hi. Ar-are you a new friend?”

He pauses. Is he? Why does the boy automatically assume everyone is a companion? That’s very dangerous, for not everyone is pleasant, especially him. He wants to explain this, help the poor kid understand, but he does not. He knows the feeling of fear and abandoning hope, so now, all he wants is for the new kid to remain innocent.

“If you want me to be,” he leaves the choice up to him.

He beams brighter than the sun at noontime, “I’d like that very much.”

Corpse does not extend his hand, but he takes it anyway, content to walk with him and occasionally frolic through a meadow.

“My name is Sykkuno. I’m the god of spring, I think.”

How does one “think” they are a god? Either you are or you are not, Corpse grumbles internally. Truly, he yearns for the peace Sykkuno wields so effortlessly. He is merry and cheerful, two things unfamiliar to the boy raised in the heart of gloom and wickedness. It begins to seep into him like red wine on a white cloth, and he does not mind at all.

A delicate lavender insect perches on the boy’s finger. Corpse stares in a mixture of intrigue and repulsion. Where he comes from, there are no bugs nice enough to dedicate time to prancing on someone’s hand; they’d rather bite it off instead.

“What’s wrong?” The hazel eyed boy asks.

He cowers from the flapping wings and weird beetle-like body, “N-nothing, I just- aren’t you scared? What if that thing hurts you?”

Sykkuno giggles, “Have you never seen a butterfly before?”

He shakes his head lamely.

“Oh, that’s sad. But look and see. It won’t hurt me.”

“I’m glad. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Happy seems like Sykkuno’s permanent emotion, and while the sensation is foreign, Corpse is beginning to mimic his joy at the sight of the pest. The pretty, smaller boy extends his hand, the one with the pastel butterfly clinging nervously for fear of being touched by Corpse, to his new friend.

“Here,” he presents, “just gently let it come to you.”

The bug appears to have an internal conflict. Looking between the sweet Sykkuno and the dark, unknown, seemingly unpleasant alternative, the choice is clear that it wishes to stay put. Eventually, giving into the slight nudge from the god of spring’s finger, it reluctantly dances across to Corpse.

“See!” Sykkuno beams, taking his eyes off the delicate butterfly. A good thing he did, too, because the purple creature now sports a burnt wing from narrowly escaping a brush with death. It flies away, wings vigorously clapping together to make up for the shortcoming of a tinged limb, and Corpse ducks his head in fear of retribution for his unintentional action, “Oh, it left.”

“It’s alright.”

A flash of almost sadness flickers across Sykkuno’s face, but it quickly disappears in favor of another grin. Corpse thinks, is this kid ever not happy? It does not seem so, for Sykkuno is already moving onto another topic of fascination.

“That’s my favorite flower,” he crouches next to a purple plant, “it’s a hyacinth. Do you know how they were created?”

Of course he knows the story, but he wants to hear it straight from the pretty boy’s lips anyway; he shakes his head.

Fortunately, Sykkuno loves to teach and care for the young, having spent many days sharing tales with the children of nymphs, so he does not mind at all, “There was once a beautiful boy named Hyacinth,” not as beautiful as you, Corpse thinks but doesn’t interrupt, “whom the great lord Apollo fell in love with. They met many times, but another god, the west wind called Zephyr, let his jealousy fester. He lost control one morning, and while the lovers were playing discus, he sent a dreadful wind that killed Hyacinth. Apollo became so distraught with grief and despite using his healing powers, nectar, and ambrosia, he could not bring him back. To memorialize him, he spread his blood on the ground and sprouted lovely purple flowers. That’s pretty, isn’t it?”

Corpse likes the way Sykkuno’s mouth forms words, how he always has something to say. He likes when he stops talking and goes back to twirling the stem of his favorite flower, so lost in his craft. The beautiful boy was born to care for the land and the saplings that spring up near his feet; of course, he has noticed the trail of petals that Sykkuno leaves every time his foot touches new ground. He has also noted the way the same petals shirk from Corpse and wither into black, smoking lumps when he does not step around them. He is very glad his companion has been so focused on the flora and fauna of the surrounding area that he has not also seen this phenomenon in action.

Another, much darker thought takes over: he can never touch Sykkuno. Everything that his fingertips meet falls away like ash, lost in the wind, doomed to drift off into the Underworld. When he walks, nature visibly shudders, and if they can, the plants carve a path for his feet to walk through so that he will not clobber or fatally injure them. While Sykkuno is brightly smiling, prattling on about the golden sunshine or lushness of a nearby knoll, he is experiencing something he only recognizes as self-loathing. He was not created to take up space in the environment that Sykkuno flourishes in. He is destined to kill and maim, burn cities and reap the reward of seeing lost souls suffer for eternity. His father wants that, and so who is he to complain? It is a fine position; he will be revered among the chief gods for his immense wealth and strength. He can suck the life force out of them, so they will have to be at least cordial to him if he chooses to meet them on the surface. Although that sounds alright, he will be lonely. Nobody with any sense will venture deep into his father’s territory, for anyone who goes will certainly not come out the same as before. They will look fine, sure, but there are numerous side effects as a price for the journey.

On the other hand, Sykkuno, while he puts on a happy front, is disguising his nervousness. He rambles about olive trees and the origins of certain roses, but internally, he is at war with himself. He is in love with the spawn of death, and what is worse is he does not mind at all. In his youth, he had, of course, learned the stories passed down of how death and chaos came to be, how they wielded such power that even the strongest and most prominent beings cowered upon hearing their footfalls. Then, the primordial force of good, Mother Earth, and her two sons, the brothers of death, cast out the pair to roam and rule the Underworld. Such a punishment had never been granted to even the worst offenders, and Sykkuno always pondered on the fact that neither had committed any serious felonies. They had coexisted, just like the elder gods always preached, but they had paid the price without a trial or evidence of any wrongdoing. Yet who was Sykkuno as a young child who did not have the full span of his capabilities to disturb the peace? He stayed quiet.

Now, he is face to face with their son. He is walking through the same fields and climbing the same hills that he would with his nymph friends. And somehow, he cannot find it within him to seek repentance because as of right now, he has not done anything wrong, though he still feels the guilt eating away at him.

“What flower is that?” Corpse interrupts his thoughts.

He looks down, almost as if he hasn’t noticed the crown in his palm, has not even given it a second glance, so infatuated with the sight of the young offspring of death.

“Uh, they’re peonies.”

He smiles, “They’re pretty, but you’re prettier.”

Sykkuno’s mouth shudders like a grin is sure to appear soon, but just as the corners tip upwards, a loud shout is heard.

“Darling! Sykkuno! Where are you?”

“My mother.” He explains dejectedly. Just when he has found a new companion, she has to ruin it with her worrying, “It’s hard to get away from her, you understand.”

Except he does not understand, not even in the slightest, because his parents did not exactly stick around long enough to call for him with such fear that he might not answer as Sykkuno’s mother does.

The two meet the next week and the next for a long time. They share stories and trample through wooded trails with wide grins and loud, joyous cries. Corpse shows off his powers of invisibility while Sykkuno picks flowers to make a bouquet, and they play hide and seek. It is really nice because Corpse does not feel the need to conform to anyone else’s wishes for him, and Sykkuno is free without boundaries.

Then one day, disaster strikes.

They are playing like children, embracing a youthfulness that neither was allowed to enjoy while it lasted. The woods are quiet, solemnly crossing the fingers of every tree and woodland creature. It does seem that nature is omniscient in such instances.

“Corpse! Where are you?” Sykkuno shouts, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify his call.

The dark haired individual taunts playfully from above, “Come and find me!”

The boys race each other recklessly through the forest. Corpse is practically soaring from above, laughing wildly as he does. Sykkuno’s lungs suck in more air until he feels weightless too, running swiftly like a bird flying. He is unstoppable in his mission. At least, he would be, if the cliff did not halt his determined sprint.

Sykkuno falls, clinging to nothing but the air, a scream still slipping from his lips as he tumbles farther down. His friend stares down with grim despair, overwhelmed by his pleads for help. He is falling, and Corpse feels powerless and out of control for the first time. He jumps too, hoping that his abilities are strong enough to lift them both without causing irreparable damage.

Shutting his eyes tightly, he grips onto something soft like gossamer and pushes himself to his limits until they are flying. Sykkuno breathes safely again, stretching his arms to take in the full experience. They let giggles fall from pink lips and do twirls in midair until suddenly, it feels like the ground is moving towards them. Soon, they are in free fall, and the sky is letting them drop.

Sykkuno screams, and Corpse can’t handle seeing him suffer. His next move is done on instinct. He opens a portal, allowing them to fall into the Underworld. This spares the pair from getting hurt, but Sykkuno is hyperventilating.

“Get me out,” he says again and again, “I want to go home.”

“I’m sorry,” Corpse mumbles, climbing to his feet and inspecting their surroundings. He only recently learned how to open entrances to his home and has not yet perfected the skill. They’ve ended up far from Hades’s palace, the only place besides the Asphodel fields that he and Sykkuno would be safe. The forever mourning lost souls near the River Cocytus would be preferable when compared to their current location: River Phelegon. Crimson and fiery, the waves hiss and snarl at Sykkuno, an unwelcome guest in the water’s mind.

Sykkuno closes his eyes harshly; he can no longer stand subjecting himself to the terrible cries of the dead that echo through the cavernous land, “I need to go-go home.”

Corpse calls upon Cerberus, the legendary three-headed dog, to carry them far away from the entrance to Tartarus. The gigantic pet kneels, allowing Sykkuno to climb on and grab tufts of midnight fur to hang on.

“Keep him safe, bud.”

The sad prince wallows in self-pity. He wishes he had let them flail and hit the ground. He wishes he could have been a better flier. Anything would have been better than landing the pure Sykkuno in the pits of hell. The boy is practically traumatized, he assures himself, lazily kicking small rocks with his hands in the pockets of his tunic.

“I’m so sorry, Sykkuno,” he mumbles when Ceberus has already trotted away.

He returns home with the mindset that he is both a failure and has lost his only friend. Nothing can console him, so he wastes the hours in his chambers, never allowing himself to leave. He considers going to the above world, but that would be foolish since he is certain Sykkuno will not forgive him. He is in bitter agony, faced with insurmountable pain at the loss.

Every night since he met Sykkuno, Corpse has been trying to fix himself. Daisy after pink rose, pastel primrose after dark zinnia. He throws out periwinkles, lilies, petunias, sweet peas, and dandelions in the hopes of repairing his broken self. Eventually, he begins to think the flowers have conspired against him, forming a secret club dedicated to keeping him away from the object of his infatuation. Perhaps the plants know about his objective to learn how to control his powers. If he does, he has promised himself he will venture to see the god of spring again.

He is invited to a lavish party to celebrate the festival of Hyacinth. The god has never known such perfect timing and coincidence, and he takes pleasure in sending a correspondence through his messenger that he will be in attendance. Now, he may have a chance to find Sykkuno and apologize.

The grand hall that his uncle, chief of all gods, has chosen to throw the event in is familiar to Corpse. In his more youthful days, he recalls, the nymphs and dryads chosen to watch over him would race him through the corridors as the satyrs looked on, placing bets and rolling in the merriment that exuded from the little boy. He executed backflips off the turrets and taunt the others to do the same, himself being free from injury due to his innate floating ability. In the hall, he performed plays and invited minor deities to attend as he sailed through scripts of Aeschylus- who had just recently found his way into Corpse’s father’s domain- Euripides and Sophocles. He reveled in the joy and thrill of being young and having the entire known world at his feet, but his jubilance was short lived.

He was instructed to attend to the affairs of a future king. Though he detested the role, over time, it became a part of himself.

Despite his best efforts to convince himself the party will be exciting, he still sulks on his way to the carriage. His father has not spoken to him in a long time, but he makes a rare appearance outside of his office to remind him “not to let me down” and to “make a good impression.” His onyx carriage is pulled by two majestic black mares. They are not actually doing any work because the vehicle floats; they’re just along for the ride like Corpse.

The golden decor is almost blinding as he shuffles into the ballroom. He spots an already intoxicated- though name a time when he isn’t- Dionysus chatting up a forest nymph, and a few of her friends blush at whatever crass joke his cousin made. He ducks his head so that he won’t be stopped by anyone and continues his search for either Sykkuno or a place to stand with a grim scowl painted across his features until Sykkuno shows up.

He fumbles with the sleeves of his nicest dress shirt, which is black, of course. Twirling his rings that adorn every finger, he begins to give up hope. He’s taken to standing in a shadowy corner as the more flamboyant people clamor and parade around him. The thought of leaving almost crosses his mind until he spots Sykkuno.

His mother is galavanting around with her golden boy on a pedestal- not a real one, his feet are firmly planted on marble tile- but he looks uncomfortable, his eyes wandering. Now that Corpse has found him, he’s at a loss for what to do. He can’t just walk up to him because there is a large crowd of people standing like a wall around Troy to keep him out. Patiently, he waits and occasionally samples a passing dessert or appetizer, but his main focus never wavers. The pretty girls with flowers in their hair and strappy sandals clacking across marble as they dance and gallop do not tempt him. He notices Zeus with a woman on his arm that is certainly not his wife, her long black hair cascading to cover both their faces while they...do whatever it is they are doing. Corpse looks away with the final thought that Hera will be in a rampage tomorrow morning. He has never fancied parties, especially not ones thrown by his uncle, but he tends to enjoy watching people like one would through a glass wall. His only redeeming quality is that he holds his liquor better than any man or god, but even that falls short when compared to his overwhelming negative traits like his pride, stubbornness, greed, and anger as well as his carelessness for his wife’s feelings, although it is not as though Hera is totally innocent in the matter.

Finally, the festivities seem to come to a close, and Corpse almost lets his distaste slip for the lack of mention of Hyacinth, the reason they have come together. Apollo is never on the guest list, but he sort of wishes he could ask the lord of music, poetry, and basically everything under the sun what to do about Sykkuno. He declines an offer for wine from a passing waiter as he chases down the object of his desire. This is his only chance, he tells himself, so it needs to be perfect.

“Sykkuno!” He calls, stumbling over his own feet in his plight. The boy stops in the middle of the courtyard, immediately grinning at the sight of Corpse. 

He yanks a gangly sapling from the ground but neglects it in favor of a much more beautiful rose. It brings forth floods of memories. He thinks of his chambers, now drowning in dreary petals and forgotten stems, blooms withering in the unyielding grasp of death, just like the lost souls of the damned that spent every passing hour tortured by the searing heat of a rusty sky.

“Lo-look at it,” he gasps for breath, excitement compressing his lungs, “do you see? It’s for you.”

Sykkuno inspects the plant before his mouth opens wide in shock, “You did it? You really- wow...that’s amazing.”

His news reported, Corpse deflates. What would he do now? Perhaps Sykkuno would still be too afraid to let him touch him. He could wait, though. He had patiently stayed far away, and all he needs to do is wait for his lover to be ready.

“Oh, that’s...good for you.”

He doesn’t sound happy anymore. Sykkuno, so lovely and beautiful, is frowning. Pensive, deep in thought. He’s supposed to be smiling, happy, but he’s sad. Corpse’s hand clenches around the stem of the rose, and it dissolves into ash. His hopes are lost, drowned, a rope pulled taut over their mouths, stopping their cries as he deserts the only thing that has ever brought him such great emotions of joy, wonder, and delight. The only person he has ever loved is practically throwing him out.

“I-I’ll go now.”

Sykkuno does not stop him.

In the days after, Corpse wonders if he was a burden the whole time, if maybe now that he is gone, Sykkuno is happier.

Corpse is choking on vibrant pink and purple petals for no reason. Well, there is a reason, but he, an almighty heavenly being, son of fire, eternal suffering, and chaos, soon to be lord of death, will not admit to falling in love, no matter how beautiful and alluring said object of love may be. He will not be the first to give in. Despite telling himself to go back, find his first and only love, and express his sorrow over their separation, he does not. His pride is too strong to break even when he pictures Sykkuno’s perfect smile uncovered by his beautiful hands. He forces himself to choke down his emotions even while he suffocates on hyacinths.

Instead of reuniting with him, the only way to stop the endless torrent of flowery ammunition from hurting him any longer, he blames Sykkuno. The boy who previously could do absolutely no wrong in his eyes is now condemned. He does not explain to his father why their marble floors are covered in unwelcome pastel petals and obsidian vases are overflowing with flowers that do not belong in Hades’s domain of all places. He couldn’t if he wanted to because his windpipe has been crushed under the weight of sunset stained leaves.

It is cold, lonely, dim. The place sags under the weight of lost souls clamoring for relief and beings trapped on the other side of the river, the ones who were not buried with coins to persuade Charon into depositing them across the Rivers Styx and Acheron. The fields are full of roaming mortals with no escape who moan and groan to no avail. There are lovers without their other half, mothers who have lost children, infants without parents. It is no place for Sykkuno.

Corpse knows this, so when his lungs can no longer contract, and his lips cannot exhale anything without a shallow cough and a handful of rosy heart shapes appearing falling out, he decides to put his hubris aside and take matters into his own hands. He convinces himself to meet his love, if only to stop the pain. In the moonlight in Sykkuno’s favorite garden one evening, Corpse crosses the barrier between his realm and the other world for a boy. He claims he has never sunk so low in all his immortality, but the truth is: he would give anything for a night with his love. His body relents in its endless torture of spewing flower flesh up his trachea. He can breathe finally without constricting his air flow. Yet everything does come at a cost, and for this, his price to pay is having to stare at Sykkuno, flawless and gorgeous, in his natural habitat.

No image his mind had created over their period of separation could compare with his boy, corporeal and smiling. His smile falls quickly enough that Corpse almost does not remember what it felt like to bask in its radiance. He wants it back immediately. He wants to pretend he is peering into a scrying bowl, so far away that Sykkuno cannot see him like this. His shoulders hunch like he is getting ready to take flight as a bird, but he tells his imaginary wings to stand down for a while. This is not the time to run. His shoulder blades jut out. His collarbones yearn to escape their prison. 

In his mind, he knows he must look rather haggard and tired. There is no rest for the wicked, and especially never for the immortals. Add that to the fact that he has not caught any sleep since he last saw his lover, so tormented by his recent condition that even shutting his eyes for a moment to welcome unconsciousness could be detrimental to his health, he is tired, and his eyes are rimmed blue while he coughs up more crimson rather than indigo and lavender.

Sykkuno isn’t breathing. His lungs are trying to contract, but he can’t force them because of the lilies, lotuses, and hyacinths that are overflowing into his throat. He always knew that soon, it would be too much to bear. Mouth full of bitter chrysanthemum petals, he doubles over, trapping the pain within himself to prevent crying out and making a scene which he thinks would just convince Corpse he is a bigger fool than before. If he was not immortal, he would have died long ago, but even those gifted or cursed- whichever way you perceive it- with eternal life can suffer; that is what he is doing now. His garden is his safe haven, his happy place where he can speak to the nymphs, guide fresh buds into full blooms, and provide protection for animals seeking refuge, but he fears it will also be his final resting place. The insurmountable agony will hold him to the ground, never again to move, if he allows it. He fights back, holds off surrender for just another minute more.

“Y-you shouldn’t have co-come here,” he chokes out softly, swaying. He is lost in a dark pit; he believes he will never get out.

Corpse doesn’t talk. He wraps his arms around Sykkuno lovingly in a way that no one has ever hugged him. His condition is not as far along as his lover’s, and he feels terrible for both of them. It is sufferable to watch the light of his life, the one who arranges the heavens each morning in his eyes, choke and struggle.

“I love you more than anything,” he sobs, burying his head in Sykkuno’s neck, softly caressing his cheek.

“I…” a jagged branch wraps around his sternum as another sets off to pierce his heart. He sobs and coughs and convulses, “l-love yo-you too.”

He can feel the growths in his chest retract, twigs feeling like shards of glass as they rip through flesh, going back the way they grew. His mouth releases the last few petals, no longer straining to gasp for air. 

“You saved me,” he breathes shallowly, but at least he is still inhaling bittersweet oxygen.

Corpse shakes his head, “No. You saved me.”

He reclines beside his savior while Sykkuno lists off praise for Corpse’s display of heroics. He just feels selfish. There is no universe in which they should be together. He would have given his life in exchange for Sykkuno’s, would have bathed in self-pity and primroses to see him smile again. Still, he is selfish. His love calls him benevolent, perfect, a fine example of everything gods should aspire to be, but he tunes out the pretty words because he believes he does not deserve an ounce of the wonderful god’s affection. In Hades, the only thing cold is his father’s shoulder, and affection is out of the question. He barely knows how to reciprocate, much less accept compliments on top of that.

“Were you scared, too?” Sykkuno whispers, and Corpse is so lost in the aroma of pure heaven- something he shouldn’t even be allowed to know- that he gives off, he finds it hard to concentrate. “Of the petals, I mean.”

“Of course. I-it was the closest thing I’ve ever felt to dying. Well, other than being away from you.”

“My friend, Toast, he could probably fix it. God of healing.” Sykkuno does not stammer during his explanation. He is calm, breathing slowly, “But I was too scared to ask him. He used to like me as a child, but not in a just friends way. So I was afraid he would get mad that I love someone else. I know what the petals mean. There’s a story about them that if you love someone, and they confess their love to you, they’ll go away, but I never realized that...well...

“I love you,” he stares up with teary eyes and flushed cheeks.

Corpse has never loved anyone or anything. Maybe it’s because every time he tries to love something, it dies, withers up and dies in his hands. Though he has never felt the sensation so intensely before, he is well aware that he loves Sykkuno.

“I love you too,” he repeats, and this time, they speak clearly, not hacking up vibrant blossoms or getting stabbed by merciless twigs. This time, their love is saving them in an entirely different way.

It is almost ironic that the two gods who wield nearly polar opposite powers have fallen in love, but neither protests when their lips meet, carefully and hesitantly. Then a second one follows much more tender and sweet. Sykkuno dips his head into the crook of Corpse’s neck and threads their fingers together. He does not pull away in agony or fear; they are calm and happy. The ground is covered in soft petals, remnants of their destructive illness, but they can only focus on each other, on their love. Corpse used to think he was not cut out for happy endings, but he has finally found his.

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe I’ll do a second chapter, but I’m not sure just yet.


End file.
